"Mr. Chancey—Mr. Chancey," said a slight young man, whose whole appearance betokened a far progress in the wasting of a mortal decline. His face was pale as death itself, and glittering with the cold, clammy dew of weakness and excitement. The eye was bright, wild, and glassy; and the features of this attenuated face trembled and worked in the spasms of agonized anxiety and despair—with timid voice, and with the fearful earnestness of one pleading for his life—with knees half bent, and head stretched forward, while his thin fingers were clutched and knotted together in restless feverishness. He still repeated at intervals in low, supplicating accents—"Mr. Chancey—Mr. Chancey—can you spare a moment, sir—Mr. Chancey, good sir—Mr. Chancey."
For many minutes the worthy barrister gazed on apathetically into the fire, as if wholly unconscious that this piteous spectacle was by his side, and all but begging his attention.
"Mr. Chancey, good sir—Mr. Chancey, kind sir—only one moment—one word—Mr. Chancey."
This time the wretched young man advanced one of his trembling hands, and laid it hesitatingly upon Chancey's knee—the seat of mercy, as the ancients thought; but truly here it was otherwise. The hand was repulsed with insolent rudeness; and the wretched suppliant stood trembling in silence before the bill-discounter, who looked upon him with a scowl of brute ferocity, which the timid advances he had made could hardly have warranted.
"Well," growled Chancey, keeping his baleful eyes fixed not very encouragingly upon the poor young man.
"I have been unfortunate, sir—I have lost my last shilling—that is, the last I have about me at present."
"Well," repeated he.
"I might win it all back," continued the suppliant, becoming more voluble as he proceeded. "I might recover it all—it has often happened to me before. Oh, sir, it is possible—certain, if I had but a few pounds to play on."
"Ay, the old story," rejoined Chancey.
"Yes, sir, it is indeed—indeed it is, Mr. Chancey," said the young man, eagerly, catching at this improvement upon his first laconic address as an indication of some tendency to relent, and making, at the same time, a most woeful attempt to look pleasant—"it is, sir—the old story, indeed; but this time it will come out true—indeed it will. Will you do one little note for me—a little one—twenty pounds?"